Scars
by iasant
Summary: "She's freckled with scars. It's funny that she makes such a fuss over the one on his chest, because he could play connect the dots with hers."


She lays there sleeping. Beautiful, but ghostly pale. It's not an unfamiliar situation or even the worst one, but the aroma of anti-bacterial treatments and alcohol hang in the air like a heavy blanket on the senses, and it's far too nauseating to be comfortable. It's late too and he hasn't been able to doze off for more than a few minutes before a rush of adrenaline from replayed images courses through his mind and he's awake and reaching for her in the dim light of the hospital room. He reassures himself with a hand against her chest to feel the rise and fall of her breathing. He takes each rhythmic beat of her heart and strings them together in a comforting white noise of notes that soothe his fears.

He wonders how she can still look so amazingly beautiful given the situation. She is bathed in the glow of hospital light and looking as delicate and fragile as a newly bloomed flower. She is self conscious and doubtful of her looks. He finds it funny how such a strong young woman who tears apart demons for a living can be so unsure of her external features. She believes beauty is on the inside, but needs reminding of why he's so damn attracted to her. He supposes that she wouldn't be her if she wasn't an enigma to him.

It's a conflicting image though. She may look perfect to his eyes, but she's greatly damaged, and that part leaves a bitter feeling in his stomach. Flowing from her body are wires and tubes and assorted attachments that monitor her health and aid in the healing process. He reaches forward and takes one hand in his own, smoothing his thumb against her skin. He's careful not to touch the needle buried underneath. They have to watch her closely, because she's lost a lot of blood. He supposes it's another scar to add to the mix.

She's freckled with scars. It's funny that she makes such a fuss over the one on his chest, because he could play connect the dots with hers. She has so many that it's almost impossible to remember where she got them all. The biggest ones are the easiest. Three puncture wounds from where Free stabbed her in the side, the remnants of the attack from Giriko scattered on her back, a circular stab wound on her shoulder where the Kishin had impaled her. There are fainter ones too, like the one on the inside of her palm that he places his lips against. In their early training days, she wasn't as graceful and her palm had slipped against his blade once. Six stitches, each with twin sets of raised dots. Almost completely faded by now, but a memory of his own guilt. He knew it was inevitable that his meister would get injured from time to time. She might have the highest skill level at the academy, but she was still human and made judgment calls. No soldier ever got away from battle with perfect skin. Often times took the wounds as a failure on her own part, tearing at herself emotionally on how she could improve. He'd seen her at times curled up on the sofa and silently suffering through the pain of a particularly bad wound. He had come to recognize the signs of the internal battle she was fighting with herself about how she would never let that happen again. Some times he wouldn't be let into that world of hers, and other times she would lay her head against his shoulder and sigh as if she wanted to cry but was refusing herself.

He'd been stupid enough to believe that she didn't give a damn about them. She wasn't like the other girls, who were obsessed with their features and looks. Besides, no one ever really noticed them, Shibusen doctors could work wonders, so he figured she didn't think about them much either.

That was until the change in their relationship had happened. The bond between them had grown so deep, so strong, so overwhelming powerful that there was no way to keep their relationship platonic. They needed to share those feelings and be close to one another in a way that might satisfy the suffering ache of what is two souls who were born to join as one. It had started with a simple brush of their lips as they comforted each other on the couch, but a spark had been lit and could not be held back. He'd known that the time had come to break through the chains of their friendship that had held them back from their real potential with each other. They would become what they were really meant to be, what both had silently wanted to be for so long. When he had gone to undo the buttons on her blouse though, she had paused shying away. The quiet way she had asked him to turn off the lights confused him. Wasn't she aware that he wanted all of her? That he wanted to drink in the woman that was his meister and savor each sense that he possibly could with her? What did she even have to be worried about? His heart sank as he realized the impact that the words of a stupid teenage boy could have on a teenage girl as she apologized for her breasts and the scars and boney knees and elbows. He'd wiped away the tears that fell from her eyes as she apologized then for being so emotional about it. When she was calmed and reassured he was able to show her just how beautiful she was to him. The final act of connection may have only lasted a few minutes, but the act of love making had lasted for hours. They'd left the lights on.

He wants her to open her eyes, so that he can take comfort in them. He hasn't seen them open since they wheeled her away from him. Off to surgery to fix the most recent wound. It hadn't even seemed like a big deal at the time, a simple punch to the gut that had left her winded but severely pissed. She'd raged against the demon and won in a single strike. Then she had grumbled about kishins and their annoyances and "damned if she was going to let something like that stop her from taking the test the next day." He'd let it go, by now he had learned when not to bother her and he'd accepted the situation at face value. Looking at her now, he feels foolish. It was just that…typically her wounds were visible.

There were levels of discomfort that his meister could take. The worst ones, were the ones she felt the highest need to overcome. Then she'd complain about a burn on her hand or a papercut from a book for hours. Before bed he'd tried to rub her back but she'd flinched so badly, that he considered taking her to the doctor, but it was just a little bruise so she managed to convince him she'd see one as soon as the test was over. That night he had decided tests could be damned because she was sweating in his arms and her little bruise was growing.

Her hands had clung to him in fear, but he'd soothed her worries with his lips against her temple and reassurances that everything was going to be just fine. There was no one to reassure him when she'd been wheeled off to be cut into, to find the extent of the hidden damage. It was only when she was in recovery and the doctor informed him that she was going to be just fine and they'd gotten to it in time was he able to relax. Of course he'd wanted to see her first, but her father had beaten him to her recovery room and by the time he had made it to her, she was already lulled off by a cocktails of drugs and heavy exhaustion.

He drags the chair closer to the bed, ignoring the groan from the legs underneath it. He picks up her other hand and begins to offer it the same nurturing attention. Her fingers are too cold, but that's just because her blood is where it's most needed. She'll be back to her full feisty self in no time at all, but she'll need to rest for awhile. He can imagine that hell she is going to raise being stuck resting. They are like a broken record in their life. Train, battle, study, and try to stay alive doing it. Somehow they slip sex and eating into the mix, two far more preferable things. There are close calls and this has been one. He doesn't want to think about whether or not luck will run out. He'll take the stench of the hospitals and monotonous hum of the machines every single day if it means she's still with him.

This is another memory to add to the list of frightening battles. Memories are merely scars left on their brains, imprinted and far more ugly than anything on exposed skin. Memories bring fear and anxiety and a realization that someday the blood loss could be too much or the puncture in the wrong place. If he were to ever lose her it would sever his own soul because it's completely tied into hers now. It probably has been since he met her as a headstrong young girl who was ready to take on the world. Except for an appendix scar, she was a clean slate then. They both were. Young and naive, but ready to give the world hell together.

How could he ever really explain to her that he loves those scars because they are her survival? They are the promise of healing and of learning. Each one that he looks at is a reminder of a time that he did not lose her. It's a reminder of a battle that had been won. Even the new one will be a reminder of a pre-kishin that is no longer alive. He's made aware of the tears because suddenly her palm is damp with them. He's even more acutely aware of the fact that there are eyes on him. He could feel her presence a mile away.

"That bad?" Her voice is tiny and soft. He shakes his head, pulling back to embarrassingly wipe at his face with his shirt. "Then why the tears?"

He has to make a joke, he has to, because he hates being caught feeling so vulnerable. "Surgery left you completely deformed." Wrong joke, her large tired eyes can't handle it and they fill with tears. He quickly reaches over to place both palms against her cheeks and kiss her mouth over and over again. He'll never learn. "I'm kidding. It couldn't have gone better. It's a plain three inch cut at best. Nothing at all special to brag about." She smiles into each kiss.

"I should Maka chop you for that."

"I took care to remove all the books." He always says stupid things anyway.

She yawns. "Oh well, raincheck then." He kisses her again, forehead pressing against hers. She lets out a sigh. "I don't hurt at all."

He laughs. "Give it time, you're in Vicodin land."

"I like that land."

"It's a pretty cool place to visit. Not worth the travel cost though."

She groans a bit. "Tell me about it." Already she's fighting sleep again. He leans his chin on the rail of her bed and smooths the hair out of her face, trying to put the very essence of his love for her into each stroke of his thumb. She gazes up at him with heavy eyes. "Sorry I'm not better company."

"You're the best company." His voice is a whisper and he doesn't break the eye contact they share. She's fighting it, wanting to keep looking at him. "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up." She takes it as permission and falls asleep in the middle of an attempt to tell him that she loves him.

"I love you too."

She lays there sleeping. She's beautiful even if she's still pale. It's not an unfamiliar situation, but it's a good situation. The woman he loves is going to be okay and she's sleeping peacefully. Another wound, another reminder, and another battle that they did not lose. The two of them defy logic in every meaning of the word and that's what keeps them strong. That's what keeps them winning. As long as they have that he doesn't really care how many scars are collected along the way.


End file.
